From the back of the male’s neck there burst a small growth.

It
resembled a weed, such as Thura might have trod upon a
thousand times a day. Yet that weed sprouted rapidly, growing and
growing within a single heartbeat.

The other orc finally sensed it. He reached back, but several
dark green leaves wrapped around his wrist. The weed continued
to spread, pouring over the hapless warrior’s body. As it did, the
leaves began sprouting terrible thorns, all pointed inward. They
jabbed into the orc and wherever they did, they drew blood.

With a smile, the duplicitous night elf stepped back to admire his
handiwork. Rivers of blood poured from every thorn.

The male orc shivered. His mouth gaped and he fell to one
knee. The weed’s tendrils covered his body until they completely
bound him. Blood continued to gush from the monstrous wounds as
the night elf watched with amusement.

Thura called out the male’s name even though it was already too
late to save him. “Broxigar!”

Suddenly, the demons faded to mist. There was only the night
elf, his victim, and Thura. The night elf stepped back farther, his
mocking gaze turning to her.

The golden orbs turned utterly black. They became deep pits
that coldly pulled at the orc’s soul.

Then from those dark pits poured forth monstrous, ebony

carrion bugs. Beetles, millipedes, roaches, and more flowed forth
from the night elf’s eyes in horrific streams that spilled to the
ground. The vermin spread in all directions and as they did, trees
and other flora materialized in their path. Yet the lush wildlife barely
appeared before the vermin swarmed it. Bushes, shrubs, even the
tallest trees became enveloped.

And as they were, they withered. Everything withered. Thura’s

world became a twisted, hideous vision.

The night elf laughed. From his mouth spilled forth more fiendish
vermin—

He vanished.

Thura shouted out Broxigar’s name again. With effort, the dying
warrior managed to look her way. One hand broke free of the
strangling weed, then stretched forth, the magical ax held out.

His mouth whispered a name—

Thura awoke with a start.

She lay there for a time, still shivering despite the fact that the
woods in which she currently traveled were of a comfortable
temperature. The dream played over in her mind, just as it did
whenever the orc was not reliving it in her sleep.

With some effort, Thura finally rose. The small campfire that she
had built earlier had long died out, only a few faint wisps of smoke
left in memory. Momentarily setting down her weapon, Thura used
some dirt to smother what remained of the fire, then looked around
for her pack. Seizing up the small, leather sack, she retrieved the
ax and started off.

It was always like this. Walking until she was dead on her feet,
catching her supper, then sleeping until the dream woke her up and
left her in such a state that she knew it was better to move on. In a
macabre way, that suited the orc just fine. Not only was there risk
of late for any who were merely sleeping, but each step took her
closer to her goal, closer to avenging her blood kin.

And even more, she had come to realize, she was spurred on by
another mission: to prevent a catastrophe that would not only
engulf her own people…but all else.

The male orc, Broxigar, had been brother to her father, although
their own fathers had been different. She knew of his legendary
stand with his comrades against the Burning Legion, a stand which
had resulted in Broxigar—or Brox—as the only survivor. Even as a
child, Thura could sense the guilt he had felt at living when his
friends had not.

And then Thrall, the great orc leader, had sent the veteran
warrior on a mysterious mission with another. Neither had ever
returned, but then, as rumor had it, an old shaman had brought
back the wondrous wooden ax from the dream and left it with Thrall.
That shaman had also spoken of Brox becoming a hero who had
helped to save not only the orcs, but all else. Some there were who
said that the shaman had then sprouted wings and flown off into the
night, transforming into a gigantic bird or dragon.

Thura knew not whether all the last was true, only that when she
had come of warrior age and proven her skills, Thrall himself had
given her the fabled ax. She was, after all, the only left of Brox’s kin
save for her sole remaining uncle, Saurfang the Elder, who had
himself recently lost his son in battle. The ax might have previously
gone to either of the other pair, but Thrall’s most trusted shaman
had seen in a dream that it should go to Thura. Why, no one knew,
but Thrall had listened.

Thura felt honored to wield such a weapon, an irony, she knew.

Years ago, under the influence of the demon lord Mannoroth’s
bloodcurse, orcs under the legendary Grom Hellscream had
invaded the forests of Ashenvale and slain Cenarius as he came
forth to resist them. That had been in the days before Thrall had
returned to his people their respect for nature. The death was
regrettable…but Thura had not been part of it and so, with orcish
practicality, she assumed that the spirit of Cenarius would have
understood that, also.

The moment that Thura had placed her hands on it, it had felt
right. But the ax had brought with it something else. Not at first, not
even through the initial seasons after she had been given it. No, its
secret had not revealed itself until later, and at first she had ignored
it. A dream was just a dream…

Or not.

It had not taken the same shaman to finally make Thura see the
truth. The spirit of her lost kin had been trying to reach out to her to
demand vengeance. The dream was a hint of the truth, of that she
felt certain. She had been shown how Brox had actually perished
…betrayed by one he believed a comrade.

The night elf.

And although she could not say how she knew, Thura also
understood that the night elf still lived and that he could be found. All
she had to do was pay attention to the dream. Each time she
awoke from it, she sensed the direction that she had to walk.

The direction in which she would find the brave Brox’s

treacherous slayer.

Brox had spoken his name, which had rung in her head from the
very first dreaming despite her never having heard it said out loud
by the male orc.

Malfurion Stormrage…Malfurion Stormrage…

Thura hefted her ax…once Brox’s ax. The female orc had
sworn an oath to her dead uncle. She would find Malfurion
Stormrage, no matter how far she had to journey and no matter
what her blood quest demanded she face.

She would find Malfurion Stormrage…and then not only would

the ax mete out long-overdue justice, but perhaps Thura would be
able to save Azeroth before it was too late…